


A Simple Meal

by TheFreeJoker42



Series: The Domestic Life of Horobi and Fuwa [1]
Category: Kamen Rider Zero-One
Genre: HoroFuwa, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28269099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFreeJoker42/pseuds/TheFreeJoker42
Summary: Horobi and Fuwa cook together... and absolutely nothing else ;)
Relationships: Fuwa Isamu/Horobi
Series: The Domestic Life of Horobi and Fuwa [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092326
Comments: 9
Kudos: 10





	A Simple Meal

**Author's Note:**

> A very tame and very awkward shippy fic!

All Fuwa wanted to do was throw off his jacket, slip into bed, and just… stay there. For a full 24 hours, at least. He liked his job, and he appreciated having the freedom to do it, but no amount of physical exertion could ever amount to the kind of exhaustion having to deal with a certain type of people left him. Rescuing people from cars, investigating underground attacks and coaxing that one stubborn cat out of the tree that one time, missions like those were all well and good, but dealing with an outdated guy who just could not fathom why abusing HumaGear was _bad_ … those kinds of people drained all the energy out of him. To say it felt like he was talking to a kindergartener would be an insult to children. 

He tiredly made his way to his apartment, not even paying that much attention at this point, getting himself there was mostly muscle memory. But as he absentmindedly opened the door, he was greeted by the most mouthwatering aroma. He lingered in the doorway, melting in the succulent scent of… was that meat? Garlic? Onion? Wait, where the hell was it all coming from? 

He gently closed the door behind him, trying not to make a sound, before realising how stupid that was, who on earth would break into his apartment to cook? He rubbed his dry eyes, yawned, and made his way into the kitchen, to find Horobi at the kitchen worktop, his kimono draped delicately over a chair, his sleeves rolled up, revealing his beautiful, slender wrists. In his sleepless state, Fuwa wanted nothing more than to gently clutch his dainty wrists and pepper them with gentle kisses. 

Horobi was looking back at him with bright, shining eyes, his head tilted in the most adorable way. And shit, he should say something, shouldn't he? 

“Horobi!” Fuwa would be lying if he said a small smile didn’t begin to tug at his lips. “What are you doing?” 

“Cooking.” 

“You can cook?” 

Horobi looked down to the cutting board, where he’d just been crushing the garlic with a kitchen knife Fuwa wasn’t sure he recognised, the pile of mince cooling on a plate, and the pan on the stove that Fuwa _definitely_ didn’t recognise. He looked back to Fuwa. 

“Yes.” 

A million thoughts ran around Fuwa’s head, and he was far too exhausted to chase after them. Lacking the nuance, he settled for the loudest one. 

“You don’t have to… cook for me. You know that, right? You don’t have to do _anything_.” 

“I know.” Horobi said with the sweetest smile, as he continued crushing the garlic. “But I’d like to.” 

Conflicting feelings clashed within Fuwa like one of those flaming twisters Jin had left that one time ‘accidentally’. On the one hand, there was that rising feeling of guilt, unease, the idea that Horobi was only doing these things because he felt that he had to, and Fuwa shouldn’t be taking advantage if that was true. But then, what if this was genuinely what Horobi wanted? Either Fuwa could end up letting Horobi overwork himself because that’s what was _expected_ , or he could end up telling him what he was and wasn’t allowed to want. 

On the other hand… there was that warm feeling of… being looked after. It made him feel… fuzzy inside. He racked his brain trying desperately to find some sort of middle ground. 

“Right, well, tell me what to do.” Fuwa rolled his sleeves up, and started to wash his hands. 

“Go and rest and wait for me?” 

“Do you really have so little faith in me? Come on, tell me what to do.” 

“Alright…” Horobi handed Fuwa a tin of tomato puree. “Open this. With a tin opener. Do not try to force it.” 

“... wasn’t going to try and force it.” Fuwa muttered as he started to route through his own kitchen in search of a tin opener, only for Horobi to hand that to him as well. He took it, and did as instructed. 

Horobi, meanwhile, pushed the chopped onions and crushed garlic cloves into the pan, and Fuwa couldn’t help but get lost in his hands. It was almost like he moved in slow motion as he flawlessly swiped across the board in one clean motion. 

Fuwa pictured himself wrapping his arms around Horobi, holding him from behind as he cooked, resting his chin on his shoulder, and occasionally, gently kissing his cheek. He imagined just closing his eyes and swaying with him, getting lost in the moment, almost being rocked to sleep. 

But instead, he just lingered in the corner, the open tin in his hands, waiting for his next instruction. It carried on like this for a while, an oddly relaxing dance of Horobi handing him something, Fuwa doing the best he could and Horobi praising him for his arguably terrible job. Until eventually, the lasagna was in the oven. 

“Do you… enjoy this, then?” Fuwa asked, a more subtle way of saying ‘please tell me you enjoy cooking and you’d be doing this in your spare time regardless of me being here so I can stop worrying about accidentally exploiting you because the last thing I want is for you to start thinking you need to earn your keep.’

“I do… I find it relaxing. And I like keeping my hands busy.” 

“But you can’t… eat the food you make.” 

“No, but you can. I get just as much joy out of watching you eat.” 

Fuwa could _feel_ himself blush, and spluttered. “W-Well, still…” 

Horobi smiled, amused, and Fuwa became lost in it. He had such a beautiful smile, his eyes sparkled when he was happy, and the way he’d lower his eyelids, batting his eyelashes, Fuwa just wanted to kiss every inch of his face. 

But instead, he coughed, and looked away. “You’ll have to teach me. I mean, no, you don’t _have_ to, I mean…” 

“I’ll teach you.” 

“Right… Thank you.” 

Fuwa coughed again, and an awkward silence encompassed them. 

“Stop worrying about semantics.” Horobi finally said. “I know what you mean.” 

“Okay. Good. Because… I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to tell you what to do, because I’m not, I just mean, I’d really like for you to teach me, but if you don’t want to, that’s fine, I don’t want you to feel like you have to, or you have to want to, or you-” 

He was interrupted by a pair of lips pressing against his. Horobi’s hand was pulling at his collar, and Fuwa almost fell forwards as Horobi pulled away, trying to follow him. 

“I know.” 

Fuwa swallowed, his cheeks blushing red. “Right… Yes… Good.” 

“Shall we wait somewhere more comfortable?” 

Fuwa’s eyes widened. Surely he didn’t mean-

“The sofa.” 

“Right, yes, of course.” 

Horobi took the lead, and Fuwa followed him into the living room, his head swimming. 

“You shouldn’t undress until after dinner.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh god, I did it, my first HoroFuwa fic!


End file.
